


Arsonist's Lullabye

by ceterisparibus



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: F/M, Human Disaster Matt Murdock, Matt is dramatic, daredevilexchange, song prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-27 07:56:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17158202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceterisparibus/pseuds/ceterisparibus
Summary: Matt growing up with the devil inside.All you have is your fireAnd the place you need to reach.Don't you ever tame your demonsBut always keep 'em on a leash.





	1. When I was a Child, I Heard Voices

**Author's Note:**

  * For [whitchry9](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitchry9/gifts).



> Work and chapter titles from "Arsonist's Lullabye" by Hozier, which was also the prompt to this fic and an amaaaazing song for Matt. (And it's been stuck in my head for, like, a month now.)

_Nine years old_

Matt

The door closed. Matt waited another fifteen minutes, because sometimes Dad forgot things and raced back into the house to grab whatever he needed. Papers, his lunch, a jacket. But once Matt was sure he wasn’t coming back, he shut the textbook with a  _thunking_ sound and slid off the chair, padding down the narrow hall from the kitchen into Dad’s room. This room was the biggest except the living room, and Dad kept the bed was pushed up against the wall, which left an open area in the middle. Just the right amount of space.

First, Matt detoured to Dad’s dresser, rooting around the bottom drawer for long tube socks to he wrap around his wrists. Then he pulled off his shirt and bounced a little on his toes, shaking his arms to loosen the joints the way he’d seen Dad and the other boxers get warmed up.

The carpet was rough beneath his feat, nothing like the boxing mat. And the house was hot, but not humid the way it always was around the ring. More importantly, Matt didn’t have an opponent to face down.

That didn’t really stop him.

He started throwing punches at the air, dodging and weaving imaginary retaliatory blow. He exhaled sharply with each strike, letting all his muscles tighten and work together. Not that he had all that much muscle mass, but he was working on that too.

Sometimes he wondered what Dad thought about in the ring. How much of what he did was instinct? If Matt got into a fight (he hadn’t yet, not a real one, but he was kind of hoping for it, just to see how he held up), would he have enough muscle memory to fight without thinking? Right now, shadowboxing took all of his brain. He had to keep the right stance, and make sure his wrists stayed aligned with his arms even though his punches weren’t landing on anything. Really, he just hoped he was doing it right.

Would it be _so_ bad for Dad to just show him something? Didn’t mean he’d go pick fights. But it was such a huge part of Dad’s life and it felt weird, sneaking into his room to practice when they could’ve been sparring together.

But if school made Dad proud, that was where Matt would focus. One day, probably, when he was older, Dad would finally let them have boxing in common.

 

After the accident, the whole world hurt. And Matt wasn’t an idiot. As the days ticked by, it became clear the world would always hurt. Everything that touched him was abrasive; every sound stabbed knives into his ears. Every scent was like breathing in burning gasoline.

Some nights, when he was so tired of not being able to sleep, he thought about telling Dad. But what would Dad even do? It wasn’t like they had money to see any more doctors. They _should_ have money; Dad told Matt enough about the lawsuit to know they should’ve gotten something. But their lawyer messed up. Dad said it was probably a mistake; Matt wasn’t so sure. Either way, they never got a penny.

Matt told himself it didn’t matter. Would the doctors even be able to help?

But he put on a brave face for Dad and Dad put on a brave face for him, even though the accident really knocked them both down together, they both got back up.

Now, Matt listened as the door swung shut, and almost managed not to wince at the screeching of the hinges. He waited fifteen minutes, even though after about seven his dad had gotten out of the range of his hearing, a good sign that he hadn’t forgotten anything today. Then Matt closed his thick, braille textbook with a _thump_ that made the table vibrate.

Balancing against the walls, he edged down the hall, trying to ignore nauseating feeling of the thick threads of the carpet bunching under his feet. He walked past the bathroom and it was supposed to be clean, but the smell…holding his breath, he pushed open his dad’s door and, focusing on trying to block out the taste of dust in the air, he immediately tripped over a shoe.

He landed on the ground, forearms barely catching himself before his face crashed into the carpet, smelling of everything his dad ever tracked in. And it was too much. He couldn’t even _walk_ , he couldn’t _do_ this.

But he was a Murdock. And Murdocks always got back up. So he pushed himself to his feet and punched the air until the anger…it didn’t go away. But it settled somewhere deeper inside, where he liked to pretend it was contained.

He didn’t wrap a sock over his wrist—the fabric itched and trapped his sweat against his skin and he hated it. But he started throwing punches anyway. They were both slower and sloppier before. His arm would be halfway extended when someone would scream or shout outside (right on the other side of the wall or two blocks down; he couldn’t tell) and his concentration would snap.

It was late evening. People on the streets were looking for trouble. From what Matt could hear, it wasn’t hard for them to find it. Threats, curses, people pleading. A gunshot made Matt drop to his knees with his hands pressed to his ear until his thundering heart slowed back down.

But he was a Murdock. So he got back up.


	2. Staring into an Open Flame

_Twelve years old_

Matt

The world didn’t hurt anymore. It was just endlessly, painfully _boring_.

Stick’s training buzzed through his body; Stick’s voice echoed in his ears. When he sat in his classes, he listened to every creak of the wooden floor, judging whether Sister Patricia’s weight was forward or on her heels, noting when he’d have the best opportunity to make a run for it.

For what, exactly, he wasn’t sure.

He just wanted to know he could.

It was an easy rational that jumped straight to his mind more often than not.

Not at first. He wanted his Dad to be proud, and he knew what Dad thought about him fighting. And Stick was right—Dad wasn’t around anymore. But Stick wasn’t either. Which meant it was up to Matt to figure out how and when and why to use his skills.

Like when Peter and Nick were beating up on a younger boy; when they set their sights on Megan because she cried in front of them; when they cornered Matt and thought it’d be fun to use his cane as their weapon. They were bullies, and Stick had wanted to know what he was gonna do about bullies. That was how it started, anyway.

But then Peter and Nick turned on each other, got into a fight behind St. Agnes’ where they rolled together on the ground, dust matting in their blood. They were so unbearably stupid and childish and Matt couldn’t resist. He balanced on the top of the wall, listening. They seemed pretty evenly matched; they’d probably wear themselves out and call it a night and go back to tormenting everyone else.

Maybe this was his chance to stop them.

So caught up in their brawl, neither noticed when he dropped down behind them. Matt tapped the one on top—Nick—with his cane. “You’re in the way.”

Nick shoved off Peter and both jumped to their feet. “Back off, Murdock,” Nick said menacingly.

Well, he was probably trying to sound menacing. But Matt knew what menacing actually looked like now, and it was kind of hard for anything to seem threatening after Stick. Matt smirked and spun his cane, let it almost slip from his fingers before ramming the other end against Nick’s throat. He gagged.

“Whoops,” Matt said.

Peter let out a shocked yell and grabbed the cane. Matt let himself get pulled closer and used his own forward momentum to drive his elbow deep into Peter’s gut. A swift kick to the side of the knee sent Peter to the ground. Matt whirled around and crashed deliberately straight into Nick, sending him stumbling backwards, and followed up with a jab-cross combo that broke his nose.

Matt wiped the blood on his jeans and retrieved his cane, swinging it widely in front of him until he smacked Peter, who was clutching his knee. “You’re in the way.”

He didn’t warn them to keep it a secret. Didn’t threaten to beat them up again if he talked. Better to not let them think they had any power over him at all. Better for them to think he didn’t care if they told anyone.

Especially because…he kind of didn’t.

It was a funny feeling, the mix of guilt and satisfaction swimming in his chest. The guilt was warm and familiar; the satisfaction was hot and exciting. Combined, they left Matt feeling almost feverish.

He escaped into the bathroom to wash the blood off his fists and his arms (Nick’s broken nose had dripped blood everywhere). In his room, he balled up the jeans in a pile. Then he pulled off his shirt and sniffed the fabric. He couldn’t be sure, since the scent of blood hung heavily all around him, but he was _pretty_ sure the shirt was stained now. He changed quickly, stuffed the old stuff in his backpack, and waited for nighttime. Slipping out into the hallway, he navigated effortlessly into the kitchen where he pulled open a drawer and felt around until he found the box of matches.

In the yard, the night air bit at his nose. He found the most secluded corner he knew of, a corner at the edge of the garden that was nothing but dead plants and dirt anymore. Matt scuffed at the dirt with his shoe until he’d dug a shallow hole, then dumped the clothes out of his backpack into the dip. Withdrawing a match from the box, he ran it sharply along the rough edge once, twice, until a flame caught. He dropped the match on the pile and knelt, crossing himself while he waited for the fire to spread.

Finally, heat bloomed against his skin. Matt pulled his backpack onto his lap and hugged it against his chest, resting his chin on the top of the bag as he listened to the fire eat away at his mistake.


	3. Thought Gasoline was on My Clothes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so Matt's timeline for college and law school is really weird and inconsistent in both the comics and the show, so for this fic, I'm just assuming that Matt met Foggy his junior or senior year of undergrad and they decided to room together in law school too, and he met Elektra during the end of his senior year of college and they stayed together through the first semester of law school at least. I hope that makes sense?

_College_

Matt

College was suffocating. Not that the classes were hard. It was just…the people. All the people, somehow speaking a different language even as they all used the same words. They traded in references to movies he hadn’t seen or actors he didn’t know of. They shared stories of high school that they somehow all had in common despite going to different schools in different parts of the country, and got awkward when he so much as mentioned the orphanage. Everything about them was different.

Not to mention, you know…sight.

And it was easy enough to carve himself a place, to play the self-deprecating blind freshman (and sophomore, and junior, and senior; it was excruciatingly redundant). A few people even called him their friends. But it wasn’t a role he wanted. It was a role he was forced to play and left him itching for release.

Though his first roommate was barely ever in, the dorm was too small for him to practice and the gym was always locked up at night. Matt lasted about three and a half months before the stress leading up to finals drove him to break in anyway. Dressing in sweats and a hoodie, he stuffed his wrist wraps in his pockets along with his roommate’s metal ruler and slunk outside, leaving his cane and glasses behind.

It was a ten-minute walk to the gym from his dorm. Plenty of time to rethink this, which was why he wasn’t thinking. Not about the gym, anyway. He ran over his upcoming Spanish presentation in his head, mouthing the words comparing the common law system in the U.S. with Mexico’s civil law system.

When he finally reached the gym, he circled around to the back and stepped off the sidewalk into the flowerbed adjacent to the walls. Near-frozen chunks of dirt crunched under his feet as stopped outside the window he’d left unlocked during the day. Two quick taps verified that it was still unlocked. He slipped the metal ruler carefully into the thin crack; a slight push wedged the window open.

Hopping onto the ledge, he swung his legs through, and just like that, he was inside, but it wasn’t until he’d carefully closed the window that it really hit him. He was _inside_. A whole gym, just for himself to play in.

The lights stayed off as he wandered down the halls, eyes closed, head tilting to pick up the different scents. Weights, treadmills, exercise bikes. Another hall leading to the pool and the pungent scent of chlorine.

And there, at the opposite end of the gym, was a large room with a wooden floor. One of the walls was lined with something smooth—a mirror, he thought. Stepping inside, he unzipped his hoodie and set the ruler on top and wrapping his wrists with quick, fluid motions.

This was different from when he was a kid. Not just jab-cross combos with an occasional uppercut. He had so much more to work with now. Elbow strikes, finger jabs, a whole arsenal of kicks. He didn’t let himself fall into a rhythm; he danced from one end of the room to the other, straining both his brain and his body.

He sparred with the night until the sun rose, warming the gym. Matt was drenched in sweat, but he didn’t dare linger to use the showers. He zipped up his hoodie and took off for his dorm, crashing into bed just before his roommate woke up.

He felt guilty when he fell asleep in his second class of the day, but he went back to the gym that night anyway.

 

Elektra, he decided, was fire incarnate. She blazed into his life, bringing a heat he’d never felt before. Everywhere she went, she set things aflame until the most mundane parts of life sparked with energy. Matt forgot the meaning of boredom.

And with her, he could finally be himself. So he owed it to her to let her be herself too. After they broke into Fogwell’s, she liked to find other gyms. The fancier the better. They left sweat and shattered glass in their wake.

Today, though, he had a cold, the kind that made his whole head feel compressed, muffling every sound and scent. She was not sympathetic.

“Oh, don’t be a bore,” she coaxed.

He reached out to stroke her bare arm. “Can’t we just…”

“Come with me, Matthew.” Her wrist twisted and she grabbed his hand with slightly too much strength to be purely friendly.

Knowing better than to resist, he let her pull him upright, let her stick his shoes on his feet and wrap him up in his coat. She didn’t let him use her as a guide across campus; she danced just out of reach. But he could follow her just as easily by following the heat of her body, the wild pulsing of her heart.

They hadn’t broken into the school gym once. It didn’t really present much of a challenge. But today, it was still open for a few more minutes. Just the security remained, sweeping the place for lingering students. Elektra pulled him in through the front doors and immediately pushed him behind a wall.

Ah. So they were playing hide-and-seek.

They flitted from corner to corner, he trusting her to keep them in the darkest corners and she trusting him to know whenever security approached. At one point, she stuffed him into a maintenance closet and pressed herself against him even though there was no security nearby. Aside from the fact that a shelf was digging into his spine and the dust somehow made its way passed his clogged sinuses, he couldn’t really complain.

Finally, the other heartbeats retreated and the faint buzzing from the ceiling silenced as the lights shut out. Elektra made a satisfied purring noise and towed him from the closet, down a corridor and into a wide room. This one didn’t have a punching bag, but then, they didn’t really need one when they had each other.


	4. When I Knew Love's Perfect Ache

_2015_

Matt

“You really need to get some kind of body armor or something.”

He didn’t love the feel of the latex gloves against his skin, but at least he got to smell Claire’s hair over the pungent scent of cat hair and litter. “It’d slow me down too much.”

“So will a bullet!”

He laid his hand over hers to hold the gauze she was pressing to his chest in place. “You worried about me?”

Her voice softened unexpectedly. “What if I were?”

He matched his tone to hers. “I would tell you I’m a big boy…and not to be.”

“Right.” He could hear the smirk in her voice. “That’s why you keep ending up here.”

She didn’t sound particularly bothered by that. “Well, maybe I just like the sound of your voice.”

From there, the conversation turned to the possibility that she liked to have other company at three in the morning, which wasn’t exactly an enjoyable topic. But he did enjoy the way she tossed him his shirt from behind him, like he wasn’t blind at all. The way her voice smiled when he told her he could hear heartbeats, even though the only other person he’d ever told about that was Elektra, and _that_ had turned out so spectacularly. The way he could be free with her, for the first time since Elektra and Stick. But she was different from them. She was so undeniably, immutably _good_.

It made it easier to ignore the fact that she still called him Mike, that she knew nothing about the rest of his life, that even though she may have signed up to help him once she certainly hadn’t agreed to live under the threat of the Russians’ knife. For whatever reason, she seemed to be ignoring most of those problems as well. For now, he was content to follow her lead.

And when he heard her heartrate tick up with interest when he launched himself off her fire escape…well, that was pretty nice too.

 

His mind raced as he mapped out Hell’s Kitchen in his mind, pinpointing each of the locations from the phone he’d stolen from that cop. Claire wasn’t thrilled that he’d attacked a cop.

“No, he was working for Fisk,” Matt insisted, speaking quickly; he needed to get moving. “Killed a Russian for him right inside the precinct and later he gets that list of addresses. I’m betting I’ll find Vladimir at one of them.”

“Matt, wait,” Claire said.

He was already at the first step, but he swung around to face her immediately. Couldn’t really help it. She only had to speak, and everything in him snapped to attention.

“Just...” She held up her hands, almost defensively. “What are you going to do?”

“Whatever it takes,” he said simply.

“You know how that sounds, right?”

Yes. He did, but he didn’t feel like explaining. Or justifying. Or apologizing.

She swallowed. “Um. You know, when we were on that roof, you told that Russian…that you hurt people because you enjoy it.”

That wasn’t quite a question, so he didn’t have to answer directly. “And you said you didn't believe that.”

“I can't believe that,” she said quietly, setting the phone aside and standing up. “Because if I do, that means you're not the man that I believe you to be.”

“I need to be the man this city needs.” He’d thought she understood this.

“That's not a reason, it's an excuse.”

Did the difference matter? “What do you want me to do, Claire?” he demanded. “Let them tear Hell's Kitchen apart?” His voice was too angry even to his own ears, but he couldn’t stop himself. “Let them _win_?”

She moved closer, undaunted. “What you do is important. To so many people. I get that.” Hesitating, she wrapped her arms around herself. “I just don't think I can let myself fall in love with someone who's so damn close to becoming what he hates.”

Oh. So she’d felt it too. That this…this thing between them, whatever it was, was so much more than just two people trying to survive together or two people sharing a kiss. It was bigger than that and so, so fragile. “You're right.” He gave a small shake of his head. “You shouldn't.”

She only took one step to follow him as he climbed the stairs to the roof, pulling his mask over his face, but he could taste her tears.

The door slamming shut was a relief. On the roof, he could spread his senses across the city, holding the taste of his city on his tongue until it drowned out the taste of Claire’s kiss. But he couldn’t get her voice out of his head. Probably would never be able to, because the words had echoed there, in one way or another, for as long as he could remember. His own grandmother knew better than to love him with the devil inside; Stick had seen straight through him and found him lacking; even Elektra had been so disappointed in him.

 _Let it out_ , she’d said, pressing the knife into his hands in the mansion. _Whatever’s inside you. Do it for your father. Do it for us._

And he couldn’t. He dark enough for Stick or Elektra and he wasn’t good enough for his grandmother or Claire. He wasn’t…anything.

At least now he knew. Whatever he was, it was enough to repel anyone who looked close enough. But that was a good thing. He could walk the line, play Daredevil at night and play Matt Murdock by day. He could keep Foggy and Karen safe and even enjoy their friendship.

As long as they didn’t get too close.


	5. Don't You Ever Tame Your Demons But Always Keep Them on a Leash

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoiler alert: this chapter takes place after S3!

_2018_

Matt

Things were fine. Their case load was heavier, that was all. Some of Foggy’s fancy clients followed him from HC&B to Nelson, Murdock, and Page which…well, Foggy certainly deserved it. He was the best lawyer in Hell’s Kitchen. But Hogarth wasn’t happy, and her firm was big enough and influential enough that making enemies with her wasn’t a _great_ plan. So that was…stressful.

At least Karen was loving her investigative work, though Matt still felt guilty that she’d lost her old job. It had taken some finagling to get her to admit what had happened to drive such a wedge between her and Ellison. She’d sacrificed everything to protect Daredevil. To protect _him_. It was one thing for his dumpster fire of a life to scorch everything he cared about to ash—why did it have to burn the things that mattered to the people he loved, too?

The third time he tried to apologize for it, she told him to shut up and get back to depositions.

And Sister Maggie. He was trying (really, he was) to figure out how to navigate a relationship with her. He could tell she was trying just as hard. But they had no idea how to do this…relationship…thing. She’d been such an anchor for him in the wake of Midland Circle, with her tough love and wisdom and moments of surprising tenderness. But that was when she’d just been a nun. Now she was his mother, and not just his mother, but the woman who’d left both him and his dad behind.

It was all so much more real now. How his dad used to walk around with red eyes or a bottle of whisky (or both) on those two days of the year: their anniversary and her birthday. Matt hadn’t understood back then. But now, sometimes he looked at Maggie and his dad’s pain was all he could see.

But it was fine. He was fine. They were…working on it.

 

Foggy

Foggy wasn’t an idiot. His much-publicized bid for district attorney might have found him some new friends on the police force, but it definitely rubbed some other politicians the wrong way. Not just people who supported Blake Tower, either. Also anyone who thought Wilson Fisk would make their lives easier.

In other words, very bad people.

Some of whom had resources. A few smear articles had popped up after Fisk was put away. Inflammatory stuff that didn’t actually make any sense, except for that one person who actually uncovered Foggy’s theater history at summer camp which was vaguely terrifying. Still, Foggy could handle libel.

The two goons currently following him home from the office, however, made him decidedly less cavalier. Well, maybe they weren’t _goons_. They just looked goonish. Maybe they weren’t even following him. It could just be coincidence that they’d been following him for the past five minutes, even stopping when he paused to type out an email on his phone.

Still, better to be safe than sorry.

He took a detour. The last thing he wanted was to lead them home where Marci was. Not that she couldn’t take care of herself—she’d probably gouge an eye out with her designer pumps. But leading the goons elsewhere seemed like the heroic thing to do, so Foggy turned left instead of right, down a kind of sketchy alleyway that left him immediately regretting his choice.

Sure enough, footsteps sped up behind him. Foggy didn’t have a weapon, just his bag which also held his laptop and if it came down to it, he’d kind of prefer a broken nose to a broken laptop. He set his bag carefully on the ground and turned to face whatever was coming.

There were three of them and one had something that glinted. Oh, a knife. Lovely. Foggy reevaluated quickly. Better a broken laptop than a knife through his heart. He reached for the bag, but hands grabbed his shoulders and shoved him backwards.

“Harry DeSimone sends his regards,” someone sneered.

“See, I don’t even know who that is,” Foggy said placatingly. “You’ve got the wrong—”

Someone punched him in the jaw, snapping his head back. He stumbled and fell into one of the other goons, who’d slunk behind him.

“Should’ve left Fisk alone,” a new voice hissed in his ear just as the knife slipped between his ribs.

Foggy screamed like you were supposed to and kind of crumpled to the ground, but the other guy was still holding the knife so it pulled out from his body, and _oh no_ wasn’t that not supposed to happen? But then someone else screamed too and that didn’t make sense. Foggy forced his eyes open and realized why they used to call him the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.

That wasn’t his best friend or his law partner. That was a demon dressed in shadows, moving with brutal efficiency. Foggy was no expert, but not a single strike seemed wasted. Matt finished with a spinning kick to the last goon’s head, knocking him to the ground to join his companions.

Then Matt was at Foggy’s side, so suddenly and without warning that Foggy flinched, then winced again as more warm liquid glued his shirt to his side.

“Don’t move, Fogs.” Matt ripped off his mask, leaving his hair sticking up in different directions and revealing a face paler than Foggy had ever seen it, and pressed the fabric to the wound so hard it hurt. “You’re gonna be fine.”

“ _I_ know that,” Foggy said, because from the look in his unseeing eyes, it was clear that Matt wasn’t so confident. “Seriously, I’m okay. What about them?”

“They’re not going anywhere,” Matt said darkly.

Unconscious. Definitely unconscious. Not…the other thing. Foggy tried to push his best friend back so he could get up. “I’ll call Marci to get me…” Whoa, his ears were ringing. “To the hospital. You’ve gotta clear out before someone sees you.”

“Stay back,” Matt said, which…okay, _stay down_ would’ve made more sense. Regardless, something in his voice told Foggy not to argue.

So Foggy stayed on the cold ground. “Thought I was gonna be fine?”

“Stop.” Matt pushed the mask harder against the injury, muscles taught under the tight black shirt.

“May have escaped your notice…” Foggy sucked in a breath against the pain, “But I’m actually not doing anything except, you know, bleeding.”

“I said stop,” Matt snapped.

Foggy blinked. “All right,” he said carefully. “I just need to call Marci and you need to get away before someone sees you. Deal?” He put his hand on Matt’s arm. “Matt?”

He blinked; everything about his demeanor instantly changed. Softened. “Sorry, Foggy, what?”

Something was wrong.

“Everything okay, buddy?”

“Yeah. Fine.” But the way his sightless eyes flicked rapidly back and forth was unfamiliar. It didn’t look like he was listening to something, or sensing something, or whatever. It looked like…was he trying to _see_? “You call Marci yet?”

“I’ve just been sitting right here.” _With you_ , he added silently, _so you should know_.

“Right. Sorry.” Matt ran a hand through his hair, leaving it worse off than before. “You should do that.” Then his eyes narrowed. “That’s not true.”

Something was very wrong.

“Calm down,” Matt said, tapping on his mask. Which, yep, was bloodier now, thanks to Foggy’s increasing heartrate. His head tilted. “Nah, Dad. Foggy isn’t like us.”

Whoa, whoa, _what_. Foggy tried to push himself into a more upright position. He didn’t get far, though; Matt’s hands were all over him, holding him in place. “Matt?”

Matt dropped the mask and took two sudden steps backwards. “What?”

Maybe Foggy had misheard. Blood loss did funny stuff. “Were you, uh…” There was really no delicate way to ask this. “Were you talking to your dad just now?”

Matt froze. His tongue darted out to lick his lips. “He’s dead.”

“Well, yeah.” Foggy managed to get mostly upright this time. “But you definitely weren’t talking to me, and I’m kinda the only other person here who’s still conscious.”

“Sorry,” Matt said quietly. When he spoke again, his voice hardened into something more commanding. “Don’t worry about it.”

Way too late for that. “Matthew. You are not okay.”

“Never said I was,” he shot back.

“Yeah, but this?” Foggy kind of pointed at Matt’s head, which was probably a futile gesture. “This is…not good.”

“Not good,” Matt repeated in a low voice. “Foggy, I just saved your _life_. You didn’t hear what they were _saying_ about you. They…they weren’t gonna stop.”

A chill raced through Foggy’s body. But he couldn’t let Matt distract him right now because yeah, Matt saved his life, but then he’d immediately started arguing with someone who weren’t there. Did he not…did he actually not realize what was wrong with that? “And I’m grateful. Like, very grateful. Please don’t stop saving my life any time soon. But that’s definitely not what I’m talking about.”

“I’m just stressed. We all are. Please don’t worry about it.” Not a command, this time. A nervous request. “You need to call Marci.” He took another step back, bringing him even with a dumpster.

“Matt, don’t you dare—”

“See you soon, buddy.” A hop onto the dumpster, another onto a fire escape, and then Matt shimmied onto the roof and disappeared.

Not far, probably. Foggy knew better than to think Matt would actually take off, leaving Foggy bleeding surrounded by three unconscious attackers. No, Matt would be lurking to make sure Foggy actually called Marci and got out of there. He just didn’t want to deal with whatever demons were haunting him right now.

So Foggy reached gingerly for his phone and punched in Marci’s number, but he wasn’t really thinking about the stab wound or the fact that he finally could add “was almost murdered” to the list of things he had in common with Matt and Karen. He was thinking about his best friend and wondering how long _this_ , whatever it was, had been going on. Wondering if he should’ve known somehow.

Foggy gave Marci his address and hung up to wait for her. Then he closed his eyes. “Hey buddy,” he whispered. “I know you’re listening. I just wanted you to know…it’s okay. We’ll get through this.” He took as deep a breath as he could manage before the wound in his side twinged. “I promise, I’m not going anywhere.”


End file.
